


In His Shape How Lovely

by Dancains



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Facial Hair, M/M, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 09:46:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19438924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: Edward Little knew he was a good steward. That thought was the one private vanity he allowed himself.





	In His Shape How Lovely

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece, of sorts, to [Forbidden Fruits](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18871678)

Edward Little knew he was a good steward. That thought was the one private vanity he allowed himself. 

His manner was well suited to that of the captain, and he suspected the man was grateful that Edward went about his duties with a quiet air of austerity, not pressing unnecessary pleasantries when they were unwanted, nor expecting anything more in return for his service than his Royal Navy pay, adequate food in his belly, and a hard, thin bunk to sleep in at night. A social climber, he was not.

Despite his oft gloomy demeanor, Crozier would sometimes speak warmly to him, or even regale Edward with some tale from his earlier life, some previous expedition. Crozier was a good man--a good leader, and in those moments Edward would sometimes entertain the fancy that if his own father had lived past Edward's infancy, he might have been a man in a similar mold.

One unique aspect of his position, was that Edward was made privy to Crozier's true opinions of his fellow officers and crew, more often than not when the man had a good deal of whiskey in him. Commander Fitzjames was usually the victim of Crozier's ire, when he wasn't speaking to Sir John's incompetence. Usually these were half-murmured as Edward prepared him for bed, after another excruciating officer's dinner on their sister ship. Certainly, none of it was ever repeated to a soul.

One man, for who it seemed Crozier never had a single ill word, was his first lieutenant, Thomas Jopson--and Edward could plainly see why. Lieutenant Jopson was probably one of the most competent men aboard, stern when needed, but generally affable, and unusually well-liked by both his peers and subordinates. Though, unlike Fitzjames, the man was exceedingly humble in spite of his popularity. He had previously served with Crozier on an expedition to Antarctica, and they were evidently close because of the experience. Jopson had no doubt been the captain's first choice for their present voyage.

Supposedly, Fitzjames was regularly referred to as--in some quarters, at least--the handsomest man in the Navy. Privately, Edward surmised that whoever had bestowed such a title had never set on their eyes on Lieutenant Jopson.

Despite himself, he couldn't help but take notice of the lieutenant's handsome, almost boyish visage. Everything from the regal line of his nose and the straight, jet-colored hair that swept across his brow, to the nearly permanent shadow formed around the sumptuous shape of his mouth--no doubt a sign of masculine virility. Edward had spent so long, covertly, agonizingly, cataloging those features, that any change, gradual or sudden, was immediately apparent, and of as much interest and import to him as a sudden shift in the frozen pack might be to their resident ice master.

It was no sudden shock to him that Jopson had decided to grow out his beard, the lieutenant having been the victim of gentle teasing by his fellow offices over their past few wardroom dinners, on account of its half-grown state. But it was one thing for Edward to witness him stubbled and unshaven, and another entirely to see him with a thick, full beard--though still tidily trimmed, as befitting a gentleman. Perhaps he thought it neater looking than the dark penumbra generally cast across the lower third of his face, or it was for the intent of warmth in the harsh, Arctic environment.

Wherever the lieutenant's motivations laid, that was the very sight Edward was met with when Jopson appeared at the Great Cabin door. 

Edward blinked. Something about the man's narrow, heart shaped face and the jut of his chin, now paired with the sleek black beard, reminded him of something, some image burning just beyond memory's grasp.

"The captain is still on deck, Sir. He should be back in a moment, I'd think." Edward told him, somehow pulling the words from deep in his throat, like someone fishing for water in a near-dry well.

"Ah, thank you. I'll wait for him here, then." Every syllable had the sound of polished china, elegant and southern. The lieutenant took a seat at the table.

"Tea, Sir?" He had just brought in the tray and set it upon the sideboard. It was a formality he was sure Jopson would refuse.

"No. Thank you very much." Jopson always seemed to speak to him with more courtesy than was strictly necessary. It was foolish of Edward to have grown disappointed, when he had realized Lieutenant Jopson spoke to all of his subordinates with such kindness.

With no other task to busy himself with, he simply nodded, taking up sentry at the door, ready to unburden the captain of his outer coat whenever he should appear. He tried his best to avert his eyes from the only subject in the room worthy of his attention. A long moment passed.

"It doesn't suit me, then?"

"Excuse me, Sir?" A frown etched itself into Edward's brow. He must have misheard.

"The beard. You can be candid with me, Little. In fact, I'd like you to be brutally honest." More softly he added, "You're quiet. But, I think your face betrays you."

The devil--that's what Edward had first imagined--an illustration of the devil made flesh, guised in human form with a slick, black beard and deceptively well-formed features, no doubt to entice weak-willed women into wickedness. And weak-willed men, he now learned.

If his face had already betrayed him, then there was nothing left to lose.

"No, Sir. No. If anything it's...it's quite becoming."

Jopson's vibrant sea-glass eyes pierced Edward like a sewing needle, as if pulling a loose, frayed thread from his breast and stretching it taut between them. It was only broken as Jopson's lashes fluttered, the man glancing down and away. "Thank you."

Edward waited, but still he could hear no footfall from the corridor, no saving grace. The rapid tattoo of his heart seemed a force enough to shatter his very ribs, yet the cabin remained all too silent.

"I think I would like that cup of tea, after all," said the lieutenant, evenly.

Edward complied in a flash, the movement so rote that he did not need his wits about him to perform it. He set the steaming cup in front of Jopson, imagining that he could detect the bright tang of bergamot buried somewhere in the strong scent of black tea. Jopson was watching him through the curling steam.

"And what an enviably close shave _you_ have, Mr. Little. My steward could never do the same for me." He lifted one bare hand, fingers curled inward, and gently skirted his thumb against the line of Edward's jaw. The steward went stock-still.

As if by command his lips parted, though he found himself too entranced to make a sound. The man's index finger made its way to the cleft in Edward's chin.

Lieutenant Jopson was a good man, Edward knew this. He was no devil. Instead, he was something all together more tempting.

Jopson's finger pressed at the seam of his lips, and Edward took it into the warm, wet eagerness of his mouth, receiving it as devoutly as a papist took the Eucharist. As Edward lathed the digit with his tongue, Jopson's eyes flickered shut, an obscene, choked-off noise escaping his lips.

Edward was violently startled into waking by a knock upon his cabin door. If he hadn't come to sense as soon as he did, he might have bitten his own finger clean in half. An acute embarrassment overcame him.

Gibson's dry, plodding voice came through the wooden slats. "Lieutenant, I have your shaving water ready." A pause. "It's nearly two bells, Sir."

Edward wiped away the wetness from his hand on the bed linens, still lost in the haze of a dream. "Come in, then," he finally grunted.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally I was going to write Jopson with mutton-chops for the sake of a full visual reversal...but I just...couldn't genuinely picture that, lmao. Also, imagine Little has a super thick Manchester accent in this.


End file.
